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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22820692">57 times</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork'>simplyclockwork</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, First Kiss, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Happy Ending, Idiots, Jealous John Watson, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, John Watson Swears a Lot, John is a jealous trashbag, M/M, Mentioned Irene Adler, Minor Angst, POV John Watson, Pining, Sherlock Holmes &amp; John Watson Friendship, Stream of Consciousness, here be swears, short fic, they're both so stupid</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 12:09:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,962</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22820692</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sort of a fix-it fic for the end of <i>A Scandal in Belgravia</i></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes &amp; John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>183</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>57 times</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">

        <li>
          Translation into Русский available: 
            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24703090">Пятьдесят семь раз</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn">Little_Unicorn</a>
        </li>


    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Beware the swears if you're bothered by such things</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Every time John hears that ringtone, that bloody <em>moan, </em>it rips into him. Sets something loose and snarling in his chest. Possessive, furious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t say why. They’re not like that, he and Sherlock, it’s not like <em>that</em>, it never has been. They’re mates. Share a flat. Partners in fighting crime. Colleagues. It’s not <em>like that.</em></span>
</p><p>
  <span>But still, <em>that sound</em>, Irene Adler’s bloody text alert—it makes him burn. 57 times, it sets him alight, inexplicably ripping through his ribcage like a wild animal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Janette thinks they’re more. To be fair, so do most of his other girlfriends. John knows what people think, has heard what they say. To his face and behind their backs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John would be lying if he said he hasn’t considered it. Hasn’t spent days thinking about it. Doesn’t still sometimes wonder and fantasize and all but ache for it. But Sherlock doesn’t go in for that kind of thing. It’s ‘not his area.’ He had been very clear. Kind, even. ‘Married to his work,’ that was what he said, that night at Angelo’s. John respected that. Appreciated the kind letdown. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But still—<em>57 bloody times</em>. It is enough to drive a man insane. Around the bend. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock says he never replies, doesn’t text her back. But that makes it different, doesn’t it? Sherlock would outlive God trying to get the last word, John knows this, he <em>knows</em> it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So why doesn’t he text Irene Adler back? What makes <em>The Woman</em> so special? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is infuriating. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Sherlock finds the small red gift box on the mantle, retreating to his room, John feels lost. Mycroft forces him to cancel plans, to abandon Janette, once again, in the name of Sherlock Holmes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She is not happy, understandably so. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John spends an hour searching the flat, cursing under his breath, shifting through Sherlock’s ridiculous ‘sock index,’ hands seeking out anything illicit. Plastic baggies, the cold barrel of a needle, plastic tourniquets. There is nothing. Mycroft still insists he stay. John bites back a swell of anger, tells himself it is annoyance, when deeper down, he knows it is relief. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is not much he would not do for Sherlock, and despite his irritation over the phone call, he and Mycroft are both painfully aware of this fact. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock returns from the morgue, refusing to engage. John follows him to his room, tries to reach him. Has a door slammed in his face for his troubles. Sherlock mopes about. Does what John can only think of as mourning. It fills him with an awful sense of sorrow for the strange man who has become such a focal point in what was once an incredibly dull, empty life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He aches for Sherlock, because he is in pain. <em>Only</em> because he is in pain, not for any other reason. Of course not. When John finds himself reaching out, wanting to pull that stroppy, madman to his chest and shelter him from apparent grief, he bites back the urge and leaves to get some air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irene Adler comes back to life. She tells John he and Sherlock are a couple. But it’s not true, it’s <em>not</em>, because they are not like that. It’s not <em>like that,</em> never has been. </span>
</p><p>No matter how much he might want it to be.</p><p>
  <span>God, the things she says to Sherlock. <em>Beg for mercy. Twice. </em>As if. That’s not Sherlock’s area. <em>She’s </em>not Sherlock’s area. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bloody hell, the things she says, and that <em>fucking</em> text alert. 57 times.</span>
</p><p>Fuck. </p><p>
  <span>And then she betrays him. Manipulates Sherlock and tries to discard him like a used toy. The entire situation makes John <em>hate</em>, makes the snarling thing in his chest want to bite and rip and tear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock comes through in the end. As always. In the end, she is just <em>The Woman,</em> and John hates Mycroft for twisting that into something other than disdain. He would have been perfectly happy to believe the moniker meant Sherlock despised her. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>Goddamn Mycroft.</em>
</p><p>
  <span>When he climbs the stairs, John plans to tell Sherlock she’s dead. That she’s gone for good now, that Sherlock won’t ever see her again. Hand on the banister, lead in his chest, he wonders if that’s really for Sherlock’s benefit, or if it’s for his. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John’s throat aches, heart a wounded animal beneath his ribcage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tells Sherlock Irene Adler is alive. Witness Protection Program in the States. Of course he does, how can he not? How could he say to this man, his best friend, anything like the truth? Sherlock avoids his eyes, looks into his microscope and says Irene texted him one final time. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Goodbye, Mister Holmes. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>John tries to hide the look on his face, but he thinks Sherlock sees it anyways. How could he not? He is <em>Sherlock Holmes</em>, after all, the great detective. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And she was <em>The Woman,</em> and John feels like he might throw up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock asks for the phone, ignores John’s arguments, and, oh yeah, he is <em>definitely</em> going to be sick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait—bloody <em>wait.</em>” John snatches the phone out of Sherlock’s hand. Jerks his arm up, throws it against the wall. The bloody thing clatters into the sink, appearing undamaged, and Sherlock, after a moment of shocked pause, turns from the table to retrieve it. Lunging forward with a growl—an actual, honest to god <em>growl</em>, bloody <em>hell</em>—John grabs his wrist, holds him in place. “Oh, no you don’t!” he snaps, tugging until Sherlock is facing him, looking up from his seat at the table. “I’m going to ask you something, Sherlock, and you <em>are</em> going to answer me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock stares up at him, brow furrowed. He tugs his hand, but John holds tight. Sherlock’s head tilts, considering. He doesn’t speak, and John feels a little bravado seep away.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>57 times</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks, and that reinforces his resolve.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you love her?” John asks, the question spitting point-blank between them. Sherlock’s eyes widen, flicker, brows rising. The surprise is there and then gone, hidden behind the mask he always wears. The snarling creature in John’s chest stirs, and he gives Sherlock a light shake. “Answer me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock studies his face, lips parted, pale eyes laser-focused. His cheek twitches, a subtle tic. “Does it matter?” he replies, answering John with another question. John closes his eyes, breathes a prayer for patience.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sherlock—” he begins, and suddenly Sherlock is standing, towering over him, brushing John’s hand from his wrist with a smooth twist of his arm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why does it matter, John?” Sherlock shifts forward, advances, backs John through the door into the hall, toward the stairs. John blinks, recovering from his surprise, and plants his feet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t answer me,” John retorts, and he manages to catch Sherlock’s wrist again, refusing to be intimidated by this ridiculous beanpole of a man. He could snap Sherlock like a twig—not that he ever <em>would</em>—but it might not hurt to remind the detective of that fact. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Neither did you,” Sherlock replies, and he ducks his head, staring hard into John’s face. John feels a flush rise in his cheeks and clamps his jaw tight, furious. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I asked first!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Really, this entire conversation is childish. Sherlock is childish, and John is clearly no better. All he wanted was an answer, and this is what came of that. John curses his jealousy soundly because that’s what this is. It’s jealousy, plain and simple. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hates it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock is looking down at him, arm held awkwardly away from his side by John’s grip on his wrist. Seconds tick by, almost a minute passing, and the detective just stares at him, eyes searching, reading every tiny expression on John’s face. John looks away, dropping Sherlock’s arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever,” he mutters, moving toward the stairs with the file in his hand. “I have to take this back to Mycroft.” He turns, reaches for the banister. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock’s words call after him from the doorway, halting him in place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It <em>doesn’t</em> matter,” he says, and there is a soft edge to his voice. A waver, one that makes John tilt his head to look at the man behind him. The tall, brilliant man, fidgeting with his sleeves and looking anywhere but at John. He raises his head, looks John in the eye. “It doesn’t,” he says, a stressed note in his tone, as if he needs John to believe him, to understand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All right,” John replies, straightening his shoulders, ever the solider. “Okay, Sherlock.” He turns back to the steps, moving toward them. Sherlock’s quiet question freezes him in place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why does it matter to you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John twitches, halting at the top of the stairs. He looks down, sees Mycroft standing by the front door. Their eyes lock—Mycroft has clearly heard everything—and the older Holmes brother nods. Opens the door silently and slips out, closing it behind him without so much as a click. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Raising his head, John looks at Sherlock. The mask is in place, but something peeks through, something ragged and raw. Sherlock’s lips purse, pale eyes glassy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It doesn’t,” John replies, the words falling slow and inauthentic from his mouth. Sherlock’s brow furrows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John.” The tone is stern, heavy.</span>
</p><p><span>John looks away, back down the stairs, frowns. “You’re my friend,” he says, trying again. “I don’t want you to be in pain.”</span> His eyes flicker to Sherlock, find him staring, eyes darkening with something close to anger, something almost anguished.</p><p>
  <span>“John,” he says, with a strange and sudden vulnerability.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mycroft is worried about—”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“John.”</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock draws his name out, sharp and disapproving in his rumbling voice. When John looks up, the mask has cracked, shattered, desperation shining through. John bites his lip, presses two fingers to his eyebrow, and frowns again. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Bloody hell.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“You said you were married to your work,” he mutters, head bowing toward the floor, shoulders drooping with sudden weight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A sound makes him look up, and John finds himself crowded back toward the wall, standing at the top of the stairs with a madman cornering him against the wallpaper. Sherlock looks down at him, gaze intent, burning, and John sucks in a breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sherlock—” he begins, but the infuriating man cuts him off, rude as always, talking over him, and with an insult, no less.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are an idiot,” Sherlock tells him, and John’s head tilts back, indignant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“<em>You’re </em>the one who said—“ Sherlock interrupts, and John begins to think he may never finish an entire sentence ever again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never said I wasn’t <em>also </em>an idiot,” Sherlock replies, a hint of vulnerability beneath the self-deprecating humour. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John glares at him, spine beginning to ache from the uncomfortable tilt of his body, bent away from Sherlock. He shifts his weight, pushing forward, making contact with Sherlock’s chest and leg with arm, shoulder, and thigh. The detective doesn’t retreat, holding his ground. He shivers, and John looks up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock’s lips part, a shaky breath puffing out warm against John’s face. His eyes are liquid, silvered, molten. John lets the air out of his lungs in a long, low sigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” he says, and Sherlock’s brow furrows.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Idiot,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Sherlock snaps, and, suddenly, his hands are on John’s face. All John can think is how ridiculously huge they are, fingers reaching up to his temples, palms on his jaw, and then Sherlock is kissing him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The press of their mouths is chaste at first, then less so, Sherlock’s lips parting at the sweep of John’s tongue. He tastes him, tastes the madman, all coffee, stale cigarettes, something undeniably <em>Sherlock. </em></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock’s fingers cradle his face, and the folder falls from John’s hands to the floor in a soft crumple of plastic, his arms coming around Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock moves him back against the wall, bodies pressing together, sharing warmth, and John thinks that, maybe, it does matter. </span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>was reading metas on tumblr, and this fic just kinda happened</p></blockquote></div></div>
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